John: It takes real courage to live with such curtains. And certainly a lad who offers himself to the worldwide web in a babushka is not lacking in courage, however foolhardy. He stands like an archaic Greek boy, in the contrapposto position, weight on the back leg, pelvis thrust to the side — quite lovely.

But those curtains, with their stale vaudevillian sweep, keep butting in like a comic at a burlesque show.

How would you describe those colors? Yes, my thoughts exactly: a symphony of bile and piss, the color of sick, with a little blood braided through in the curtain stays for a pinch of horror. Surely he’s in some scared-straight bootcamp for boys, and this room is part of the shock treatment.

I bet it’s a Christian camp, and now we know what Ted Haggard is doing. He’s running a scared-straight camp for boys. It looks like a kitchen: perhaps it’s the common room. Maybe all the boys are being punished for putting naked pictures of themselves on Myspace. This boy is showing how well the rehab is working. He now poses with his underwear on.

Granted the underwear is red and thus code for Satan worship, but Reverend Ted is more than ready to do some one-on-one with the lad in closed door sessions.

Still I do see progress. The babushka suggests the boy is Lourdes-ready and may fall on his knees at any given moment at the approach of a vision, however strange, in some darkened grotto or wood.

Richard: Hernando Xavier Alejandro Garcia Williams may be a fourth cousin (by marriage) twice removed on his mother’s side to superstar swimmer Esther Williams, but that sort of pedigree won’t get him very far in today’s fast-paced, cutthroat world of aquatic choreography.

Here we see young Alley (as he prefers to be known, in honor of his favorite aquatic mammal, Kirstie Alley), rehearsing in the kitchen/bedroom of his apartment in San Juan. Although she has had numerous discussions with her son about the rough-and-tumble lifestyle that choreographers must endure—a seedy twilight world fraught with drink, drugs, and dames—Alley’s mother is convinced of her son’s talent, ambition, and drive:

“When he was five, I was giving him a bath in the kitchen sink,” she recalls, “when all of a sudden he started moving the Brillo pads in time with the music on the radio. I think it was Ace of Base. Or maybe Roxette. Or possibly the Cardigans. I can see them in my head. I know they were blond, and they looked cold. Maybe it was Abba… Anyway, from that point on, I knew he would follow in his cousin’s muy famoso footsteps,” she concludes, lighting a candle and saying a brief novena at the shrine Alley built to Esther in the family bathroom.

Steve: I used to wear a lot of bonnets too.

Richard: I haven’t spent much of my life thinking about Eskimo cock, but this pic has made me reconsider my foolish ways. Seriously: who knew Nanook of the North and Peter North were cousins? My only question: did this caribou queen shave his balls so that grandma could finish off that handsome duvet?

David: I love the symbolic nature of the bedding. There are three historical stratas involved here. First there’s the patchwork quilt that is barely visible in the picture. The fact that he’s retained the old spread and covered it with the rambunctious gathering of faux “fur” is a statement of sorts — a breaking free signal. Most likely a fleeing from the adolescent closet.

Then we have the choices of fur, the wild mix-matching of patterns, shapes and animal forms. This indicates a movement away from the structured, gridded design of the quilt. The box-like constraints of living with one’s parents.

And then we have the guy himself — as the third and final strata. He’s now, in present time, unabashed and feral. As a final flourish there’s that wacky, American Indian-inspired star pillow that crowns his head. He’s the king of his domain and ready to take you in on a cold, cold night.

This is Manet’s Olympia reconfigured for a different gender and a different age (the age of Manhunt and fake fur). The small, frail black cat from Manet’s masterpiece is now a boisterous King of the Jungle. Similar to Olympia, our guy is offering himself brazenly to his potential customers, shaved balls and all. I’ve one word for him: “Sold!”
 

David: I’ve had to force an appraisal of this photo just so we could post it. That’s how perfectly grand it is. I tell myself what’s happening here is an effort to put nude art on the walls of this grocery-clogged little apartment. Most likely BIG BIG art.

But I feel bad for the art-making project’s model: The bear in the chair. The massive size of the photographer’s camera implies: “Your meat’s so tiny I need to use the exact same equipment that was employed when the outer reaches of the universe were photographed at the Griffith Observatory last summer.”

But our bear’s a trooper — oblivious to insult. Look at the way he’s always ready; making eye contact with the camera despite the lens being focused waaaaaaaaaaay south of a proper portrait. And the vulnerable position of his fingers resting upon his thigh — he’s staying accessible until the very last shot. God love him.

I love this picture.

Steve: The fact that there are two photographers hovering around this poor, sweet man makes me a little nervous, and I think it’s having the same effect on him.

The truth is that the photo we’re looking at is way better than any image that may come from the macro lens horror of the singularly unappealing man towering over our vulnerable bear friend. I just want to throw everyone out of the room and snuggle up.

David: Like sand through the hourglass of time: He’s back! Mr. Yuletide Splendor from several months back. And Whoa Nelly — striking a pose that would send Manet into paroxysms of impressionistic ecstasy.

For the discerning eye — still reeling from the former photo’s glut of holiday cheer — a little smidgen of seasonal coloring finds its way into this sun-dappled room. Check out the red and green candy cane holder peeking from the upper left side of the bedroom mantel. Who can ever have enough Christmas — even in June!?

But alas, our moment is destroyed by a fucking appliance — that terrible little air conditioner stuck in the wall like a contractor’s afterthought. It’s always something.

Still, this is one for the annals of Men Embracing Wholeheartedly Their Inner Feminine. And for that I give this two screamingly erect thumbs up.
 

Steve: Ha ha ha! Look at that horrifying, junky, rat hole of an apartme… Oooh! Wait. No, nevermind. No, this place looks great. I’m totally fine with it all. I love what you’ve done with your penis, I mean, windows. In fact, when can I move in? Could someone please introduce me to my new room mate?

David: Jesus Christ — I can’t even go there for this one. Death by Yellow Waxy Buildup!